My last couple of posts have been a little, well, depressing. One was about an angry woman I encountered when I stopped to pick up ice cream and the other was all about having to put my darling dog to sleep.
Today I figured it was time to write about something happy and uplifting, and what better time than the Mother’s Day weekend? One problem: my mom died three years ago. How the heck do you put a positive spin on that?
Oooh, I said to myself, I could make it one big tribute. I’d talk about how amaaaazing my mom was. How she’d given birth to four children in three years. How she used to tell people she’d been struck by lightning seven times. How, at 42 and five-foot-nothing, she’d earned her Class 1 airbrake license and drove big rigs down to California. For fun.
But look. We all have amazing moms. No one needs a 532-page biography on mine.
Instead, I’ve picked an anecdote about my mom that still makes me giggle to this day. She was feisty and witty and frequently off-color, so there was no lack of great stories to pull from. The problem was choosing just one.
Then I remembered the monkey.
My parents had just finished up their stay with us over the Christmas holidays. We’d had a lovely time, but I think we were all looking forward to concluding the visit. My dad’s mobility had been declining over the previous couple of years, so I was constantly on edge, worrying he’d trip on the rug or take a tumble down the stairs. Hence, when it was time to take them to the airport, I was both sad and relieved. Please don’t judge. I loved them dearly. But the dears had to go.
My husband dropped the three of us off at the departure area then went to the nearby gas station to wait for me. This time, though, I’d arranged to help my parents get to their gate since it was at the far end of the terminal. After picking up my special pass and getting my dad situated in a wheelchair, we made our way to Security.
As we waited in line, I snickered to myself about the little present I’d nestled into the bottom of my mom’s backpack before we left the house. She’d thoughtfully brought one of our dogs a stuffed toy when she’d come, unaware he already had the same one. So I decided to give it back to her. I was feeling quite clever about it all, picturing her expression when she got home and unpacked, only to find the toy amongst her things.
Finally, it was our turn. Mom put her backpack in a bin and we were asked the obligatory questions: what’s your destination? Any laptops? Fluids? Did you pack your baggage yourself? Then we passed through the scanner. All good. Easy even.
It was on the other side of the scanning tunnel that things went off the rails.
The security agent plucked my mom’s backpack off the belt and started rifling through it. My mother, not exactly known for her patience or tact, lunged forward. She’d traveled hundreds of times by air. Surely this wasn’t the first time one of her bags had been searched.
“What are you doing?” she asked the female agent.
“Cigarette lighters aren’t allowed on the aircraft.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my mom bristle. The agent kept digging, pulling various items out of the pack: Mom’s purse, a pack of cigarettes, her cell phone.
“How come I was allowed to bring a lighter on the trip here?”
The agent didn’t answer.
(Side note: if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that when a person of authority goes silent, it’s a bad sign. I wished the agent had at least been a dude. My mother, in all her not-too-politically-correct glory had always had a problem with female POAs. When I was a kid, we used to regularly cross the US-Canada border to visit my aunt in Bellingham, and my mom would go out of her way to avoid female border officials, even if the other lines were longer. She insisted women were “too nosy.” It wasn’t until many years later that I began to wonder what that actually meant. Why had my mom been so nervous about crossing the border back then? It’s probably best that I never asked.)
Out came a half-eaten sesame snap.
A sweater.
A purple plaid monkey.
Mom’s jaw dropped.
“Hey! That’s not my monkey!”
I stiffened. She’d just told the other security agent she’d packed her own bag. I wanted to turn around and high-tail it outta there before I was dragged into the mess and banned from flying ever again. Granted, it was unlikely a 78-year-old grandma would’ve been hiding some illicit substance inside a squeaky dog toy, but from the officer’s perspective, her behavior wasn’t entirely without suspicion. I glanced at my dad who was sitting quietly, smiling, watching the show unfold–the show starring the woman he’d been married to for 55 years.
Recognizing my prank, my mom grabbed the monkey and chucked it at me. “Keep your damn monkey,” she said, laughing, clearly enjoying my joke. But just as I was beginning to relax, she turned her attention back to the woman who was doing an admirable job of ignoring my mom’s shenanigans. The agent calmly asked me to put the monkey back on the table. I did–quickly and without protest.
I was acutely aware of the security lineup growing longer behind us and the icy stares being lobbed in our direction.
My mom, though, was oblivious. Completely fixated on the perceived injustice at hand. Finally, the agent produced the lighter and dropped it into a container along with all the other contraband. I noticed it was the plastic Frida Kahlo lighter I’d brought her from Mexico the year before. Nothing fancy. Probably almost out of juice.
“That was a gift, you know,” Mom said to the agent, who ignored her. “This is ridiculous. I’m writing to the airline.”
The agent’s lips pressed together in a tight line and she gave me a look that said, “Y’better gather up your folks and be on your way before I lose my patience.”
And so I did. I reminded Mom I was going to Mexico in January and that I would bring her another lighter. And really, I pointed out, it wasn’t like she’d be smoking on the plane, was it? I helped her pack up her things then scurried away with my tail between my legs, away from the scowling travelers behind us who obviously didn’t see the humor in the whole thing. Not that I did at the time either, mind you.
With that nightmare behind us, I summoned all my strength and focused on my dad’s wheelchair, which I managed to get going at a pretty good clip. By that time, I was fuming inside and didn’t care if Mom couldn’t keep up. She knew where we were going. She’d find us. But after a few minutes, my guilt got the best of me and I slowed my pace, and when I turned around, she was nowhere to be seen.
“Great. Mom’s missing in action,” I said to my dad.
He shrugged indifferently.
As much as I wanted our plight to be over with, I wheeled Dad over to a bank of chairs and sat down to wait for my mom. We’d been so close. Gate 58 was four gates away. Taunting me. Promising me brighter days.
Just as I was about to call my mom on her cellphone, I spotted her. She hadn’t seen us yet, so I got a glimpse of her mood without me around to grumble about everything. She looked genuinely happy, without a care in the world. My heart swelled. She’d come all this way to spend time with me and my family. She’d baked shortbread and mincemeat tarts and helped me prepare Christmas dinner for fourteen people. She’d come with a suitcase full of gifts. Some of them for the dogs.
She caught sight of us and trundled over, her purse slung over her shoulder.
“Where’s your backpack?” I said when she reached us.
Her hand flew up to her shoulder. “Damn! I must have left it at the magazine store!”
“What? Which one?” I shrieked, quickly losing all my warm, fuzzy feelings.
“I don’t know! The one next to the burger restaurant.”
I knew the one she was talking about. It was a three-minute hike back. Ten for her. “Oh my God,” I said. “Stay right there! DON’T MOVE!”
A woman gave me the stink-eye as she passed. If she’d only walked ten steps in my shoes the last half hour.
Fortunately, I found Mom’s backpack right where she’d left it, on the floor in front of the cash desk at the magazine store. We were lucky no one had reported it as suspicious, which would have been a disaster on a whole new level. I scooped it up and departed without incident.
When I got back, my dad was snoozing in his wheelchair and Mom was busy playing Candy Crush on her phone. As if chaos like that happened every day. Who knew? Maybe it did.
One thing was for certain: the day had been exhausting. We said our goodbyes and I was finally on my way. But when I turned around to wave at them one last time, I had an ominous feeling that this was probably the last trip my parents would take together. I hadn’t been wrong.
Back in the car later, I began recounting the whole crazy tale to my husband. By then, I’d started to see the humor in it, and the further I got into the story, the harder I laughed, and the harder I laughed, the less I could talk. When I finally got through it, my husband was laughing just as hard.
Isn’t memory a wonderful gift?
To be able to conjure up a loved one’s face, to hear their voice as plain as day. To laugh. To cry, as I am now, but with a light heart. To remember the time my mom made a scene at airport security. All because of a purple plaid monkey.
I would LOVE to hear a story about your mom, whether it’s funny, amazing, or even sad. And if you’ve lost your mom as I have, tell me what you miss about her in the comments below or send me an email.
And to all the beautiful moms who are reading this right now: You are appreciated and loved more than you’ll ever know. Happy Mother’s Day.
